


Lesson Learned

by Medie



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-25
Updated: 2010-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Makes sense she'd like the Dohlman. They're two of a feather. A goddamn beautiful, take no prisoners, hell on wheels feather that's probably going to take over the universe some day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lesson Learned

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://boosette.livejournal.com/profile)[**boosette**](http://boosette.livejournal.com/) ["Tie Dr. McCoy to ALL the Things" Comment-fic-athon!](http://boosette.livejournal.com/1017998.html) ([DW Version](http://boosette.dreamwidth.org/961907.html#comments))

She's three seconds through the door before she starts laughing. He supposes that's a compliment. There's not many things in the known universe that can make Elizabeth Dehner laugh like that. It probably should be flattering, would be if he weren't so goddamn pissed off.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up sweetheart, then get the hell over here and cut me loose," he snaps, jerking at the bonds holding him to the chair.

"Say please," Elizabeth says, her throaty voice smooth around a chuckle. She straightens up, tucking her hair behind her ear and surveys him with a satisfied look. "Personally, Len, I think you've never looked better."

"That's because you're a goddamn sadist." Leonard knows he's not helping his case, and this - by far - isn't the worst situation he's found himself in, but Jim's not to blame and fuck, his wrists hurt.

"Mm, if the occasion calls for it." Sitting on the edge of his desk, Liz brushes her hands over her pants and smiles. "I'll let you know as to this particular occasion." She presses her lips together, biting the bottom one contemplatively. "Do I get an explanation? Or should I guess?"

"Liz, c'mon," he says, pleading now. "If anybody else happens in here, you know full well I'll never live it down."

She chuckles. "I know. Think of the good it'll do for the crew's morale."

"Trust the ship's psychologist to be worried about that," he mutters. "I'm losing circulation here."

That, at least, gets a faint look of concern. Elizabeth pushes away from his desk in a single motion, the innate athleticism that'd made her their combat instructor's darling making the move a thing of beauty. If he eyes the line of her body as she does, he figures he can't be blamed.

She brushes by him, crouching down to check for herself. "They seem fine," she says, running a finger along his palm. "Whoever tied you up does good work," she straightens, leaning over to look at him. "Security may want to recruit them."

He huffs. "Have to be a member of Starfleet first. Hell, have to be member of the _Federation_ first."

Elizabeth's eyes light up. "Aha, ticked off the Dohlman did we?"

"That woman is a menace," Leonard says, annoyed.

"I know," Elizabeth agrees. "I like her."

"You would."

She flicks his ear as she passes, taking up her former position against his desk. "Okay, so my favorite monarch in the sector tied you to a chair. I get to know why, of course, right?" She tips her head, blond curls falling against her jawline.

Tied as they are, his fingers still itch with the urge to touch them. His crush on Liz is a secret to no one, possibly not even Elizabeth herself. The woman hits every button he has and then some with her aloof, untouchable beauty and that teeny, tiny glint of pure devilment in her eye.

Fuck, but he wants her in the worst possible way. "No," he says, growling out the answer in a vain attempt to preserve his dignity. Sure, Jim took care of _that_ years ago, but a man has to try.

"Mmm, all right, then I'll guess." She licks her lips, looking at him with a speculative eye. "She hit her head during that last blast with the Klingons, correct? A head injury caused by impact with a bulkhead could be potentially dangerous and you insisted on treating her. Being almost the only man on the ship not tripping all over himself to get into her very tailored pants, you intrigued her. Particularly when you flat out refused to play ball and, indeed, got grouchier with each passing second." Laughter creeps into her voice and she leans closer. "Did she get handsy, Leonard?"

He scowls. "No." Yes. He did not join Starfleet to get _goosed_ by alien dictators with bad attitudes and seriously fucked up biochemistry.

"And you, well," Elizabeth shrugs, "You were you. Loudmouthed and unfortunately rude and rather than cry on you and ruin her fun, the Dohlman decided to teach you a lesson." She grins. "I knew I liked that woman."

"All right, now you've got your story, how about letting me out of this?"

"No," she decides. Standing again, she moves closer. "I think I like you better this way. I also think the Dohlman had the right idea. You're a little bit of a terror, Leonard McCoy. Tying you down a few pegs might be just what the doctor ordered." She crouches before him, looking into his eyes, her own baby blues coy. "Don't you think?"

Fuck, but she's killing him. Looking at him the way she is, he's squirming and they both know it.

"This isn't appropriate behavior, Doctor," he warns. "I could -- "

"If you threaten to write me up, Leonard, I'll stop." She goes to her knees, laying her fingers on his thighs. "I'll untie you and then I'll leave."

"Aye aye, ma'am," he says, quiet as a churchmouse. "Shutting up, ma'am."

"Good boy," she says, pleased. He catches his breath, watching her as she rises up to open his pants. He's hard before she can get the zipper down, hard as nails by the time she works him out and lays fingers to him. "Very, very good boy," she decides. She runs a thumb over his tip, spreading moisture, and looks at him with a little grin. "If I'd known this was all it would take, I'd've tied you to a chair in the Academy."

The best Leonard can manage is a strangled groan of agreement. A groan that turns into a gasp when she replaces fingers with her mouth. At least, for the thirty seconds she sucks him.

"No," she says, pulling back, "I don't think so."

Leonard tries for coherence, but the best he can manage is gaping at her, fish-mouthed, as she stands up and turns around. For one moment, a horrible, horrible moment, he pictures her walking out that door. The idea's enough to leave any man sobbing, particularly a man in his current position, but this is _Liz_. Hell, Spock'd probably shed a tear or two to see her walking away.

"Computer, privacy lock," she says, as cool and professional as if this were any one of a thousand consults they've had. Like they'll be arguing back and forth over a lieutenant's fitness for duty while he fights to keep his mind on business and off the lush curves of her lips.

Then she looks over her shoulder, her expression a little pitying, and yeah, she's laughing at him, but he's okay with that. Particularly when she grins and pulls her uniform tunic over her head. "Who says you should have all the fun?" she asks, giving it a toss.

"Nobody I'm hearing," he manages as she turns around again. Sweet lord, but she's perfect.

She shimmies out of her pants, boots going in the same moment, and then she's standing there in her underwear. He follows the line of her body, slight curve of her belly, every part of her that's made professionalism such a goddamn fight for years now, and there's not a part of him that doesn't do a little 'hell yeah' at the sight of her.

"This is incredibly wrong," she says, "we're on duty."

"You are," he says and smiles wide. "I'm technically a hostage. All I gotta do is sit here, look pretty, and hope somebody feels like rescuing me before appendages start to atrophy. How am I doing?"

Standing over him, Liz purses her lips. "Not that badly, actually." She slides onto his lap, his dick pressing into her belly, and brushes fingertips over his forehead. His hair slides through those fingers smooth as silk and he leans into the touch like it's everything in the world. "Not bad at all."

She moves then, just a little twist of her hips, pushing into him. It doesn't do much at all, really, but the intent behind it has him whimpering. "Good lord in heaven, woman," he says, thick, "have some mercy."

"Maybe later," she says with a little laugh and fuck it's killing him that he can't touch her. She's _right here_ and he can't do a goddamn thing about it.

As if she can read his thoughts, and he wouldn't put it past her, she smiles a little sweetly and kisses him. It's surprisingly chaste, gentle and slow, but his head's spinning when she tips back and looks at him.

"Later," he says, "we are going to do this properly."

The sound she makes to that is suspiciously akin to a giggle, but Elizabeth Dehner does not giggle and therefore it cannot possibly be a giggle. Clearly it is a sex-induced delusion that he's going to treasure for a damn long time to come.

"We are," he insists. "There are beds in this ship, nice big ones with nary a bit of rope in sight."

"But what if I like the rope?" she asks, breath feather light on his face.

"Then we'll tie you up," he grins, "but either way, I want to touch you and I want to touch you _right_."

She laughs again. "Hmm, since you put it like that." A quick lift of her hips and she's off him. She doesn't go far. Just enough that her underwear is gone. When she settles again, she's sliding him into her body and Leonard H. McCoy dies just a little.

Hell, he dies a _lot_.

She's warm, tight, and sweet lord, she's perfect. He doesn't care about anatomy and similarities and the mechanics of the human body. Not right then. Not with her riding him, head tipped back, breasts peeking at him from the beige of her bra and a sound teasing its way past her lips that's just this side of utopia.

He's gonna send that Dohlman flowers for the rest of his natural life. Maybe throw a steak and a few dilithium necklaces in there along the way. Anything that gets this in his life deserves some serious reciprocation.

Tied up as he is, there's not a lot he can do about it at the moment. Just let her fuck herself on him and hope she moves close enough that he can get lips on her skin. Paying homage to all that perfection with a well-placed kiss or fifty.

Somewhere in there, he starts talking and just can't stop. Between broken, ragged breaths he promises the universe. Praises every inch of her, every sound, every move, and she's laughing, pleading, and it shouldn't be this good, not with his hands tied and the work all hers, but it _is_ and who the fuck knows why.

Neither of them's of a mind to question it. They just go along for the ride, pushing and squirming and fucking until she's crying out and he's stuttering and his office smells like an Argelian brothel.

_Jim Kirk eat your heart out._

It's a good thing Elizabeth isn't a telepath. Explaining that one might take some doing.

Still, she laughs and he panics just a little, until she leans her forehead against his shoulder and says, "The truly ironic part of this was I was on my way here to chew you out."

"Again?" he says, mildly, like they didn't just have fantastic sex and he's not tied to a chair, balls deep in her. "What'd I do this time?"

"Later," she says, standing on shaky legs. "I can't be properly angry with you when I feel this good."

"Remind me of that, next time I piss you off."

She hums, non-committal, and starts hunting around for her panties. "Where -- "

"Desk, far edge."

Collecting them, she takes her sweet time putting them back on and even longer to get into the rest of her uniform. Fine by him, the show's a damn good one, even if his fingers are a little numb.

Finished, she presents herself with hands held wide. "Well?"

He smirks. "Like you've been fucked through the floor, darlin'." There's no hiding it. Elizabeth's never been anything but picture perfect put together in her life, at least not before now. Now she's messy hair, flushed cheeks, and eyes that scream satisfaction to the world, and that's saying nothing of the broad grin she's wearing. Most days, her emotional control would give Spock a run for his credits.

She laughs and leans down to kiss him again. This time, her hand slips past him and his are free a second later.

Numb fingers or no, he doesn't waste time in springing up and claiming a proper kiss for himself. One that has them stumbling for his desk and the promise of a round two. Except she's pulling away and looking at him with apologetic eyes. "Patients to see."

They both do.

He mutters an oath and lets her go, tucking himself away.

She ducks her head, trying to make sense of her hair, and god, he wants her all over again.

"Later," he promises, catching her fingers in his. After he swallows his pride, thanks the Dohlman, and tries to make it through the last few hours of his shift with no one figuring out what put the grin on his face.

Elizabeth laughs. "Good luck with that," she says, patting his chest. "It's written all over your face."

A second and a disengaged privacy lock later, she's gone and he's staring after her wondering what the fuck just happened.

"That woman," he says, serious as the day is long, to no one in particular, "is a menace."

Makes sense she'd like the Dohlman. They're two of a feather. A goddamn beautiful, take no prisoners, hell on wheels feather that's probably going to take over the universe some day.

He grins at the thought and goes back to work.


End file.
